Category Archives: Inspirational

Let There Be Karma

GIFSec.com

Oh, please dear God, Goddess,
or Deity du Jure,
Let there be Karma,
I pray to something I’m not sure
Would be interested enough to tune in
To my selfish petition—a kind of ammunition.
Then, just as soon as I realize
That Karma would interpret
My noble thirst for justice
As a bald-faced lust for revenge,
Karma does a double-take

and catches me, red-handed

Building a nest for vultures
In the dark corners of my soul.

Illustration Credit: GIFSec.com and hinduperspective.com, “Is It OK to Leave Justice to Karma?”

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Filed under Inspirational, National Poetry Month, Poems

Tomorrow Today Will Be Yesterday

 

What would I do
With all the time
That I waste every day
Surfing on line?

Maybe I’d see
All that dust I ignore
That settles on tables,
The lamps and the floor.

Maybe I’d notice
The refrigerator is crammed
With mashed potatoes gone moldy
And blue furry jam.

Maybe I’d finally get a handle
On closet control
And rescue the closet from
Its sucking black hole.

Maybe I’d hear
The birds chirp and squawk,
Shut down my computer
And go for a walk.

Maybe I’d wash down
The front porch chairs
And make the porch look like
Its caretaker cares.

Maybe I’d stir from my stupor
Before my chin hits my chest,
Get up and actually go to bed,
Stretch out and get some rest.

Maybe I’d cook something
Nice for ex-friends
And we’ll laugh, hug and celebrate
And finally make amends.

Maybe I’d even realize
That right now can sure seem long
But tomorrow today will be yesterday
So I’d best move myself along.

And maybe I’d write
A poem every day
Without fearing I’ll run
Out of good things to say.

And maybe I’d actually
Post it on line
Where you’ll read it and wonder
If you’re wasting your time.

Illustration Credit: “Wasting Time,” http://www.mydailymusing.com

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Filed under Inspirational, Perspectives, Poems

Two Boats and a Helicopter

Office_of_CBP_Air_and_Marine_helicopter_and_boats.jpg

Talk by Gloria Talcove-Woodward
Sunday, November 20, 2016
The Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Columbia
Columbia, South Carolina

Cautionary Tale: Recitation of Original Poetry by John Starino, “Lois.”
(Included here, with permission, from John Starino)

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John Starino

“Lois”

She was a big woman
For her height, five, five

Her other sibling
A Brother

She was married
Two children
One grew marijuana
For daily use

The other
Invalid from the First
Gulf War by some
Undetermined disease

She rarely sang in choir
Enjoyed her gossip with
Soap Opera at The Beauty Parlor

Her husband died in
An auto accident
While driving to the plant
Early one morning

She smoked, she drank little
She was

Now Lois is on the floor
In a cob webbed corner of her
Mother-in-Law’s garage within
A brown wooden box
Which has a peaked
Detachable lid
Along with her Wedding Picture

Inside of
Two plastic bags
One Wal-Mart
One Bi-Lo

Opening Words [adapted from Deuteronomy 6:11]:

We build on foundations we did not lay
We warm ourselves by fires we did not light
We sit in the shade of trees we did not plant
We drink from wells we did not dig
We profit from persons we did not know.

This is as it should be.
Together we are more than any one person could be.
Together we can build across the generations.
Together we can renew our hope and faith in the life that is yet to unfold.

Time for Children of All Ages: Shel Silverstein’s The Missing Piece
(Gloria Talcove-Woodward)

 

Community: Two Boats and a Helicopter

There’s a huge flood and a man is stranded on the roof of his house. A guy in a rowboat comes by and the guy shouts, “Jump in! I’ll save you!” The man on the roof shouts back, “I’m waiting for my God to save me.” Five minutes later, the water has risen to the man’s knees. A guy in a pontoon boat comes by and shouts, “Climb in the boat! I’ll save you!” And the man on the roof shouts back, “I’m waiting for my God to save me!” Next thing you know, there’s a helicopter, and the pilot throws out a rope ladder and shouts down using a bullhorn, “Climb up the ladder! I’ll save you!” The man on the roof shouts back, “I’m waiting for my God to save me.” Just before the man on the roof gets swept away by the flood waters, he shouts up to the heavens, “God, why have you forsaken me?” And the sky breaks open and God, who looks just like Bernie Sanders, shouts down, “I just sent you two boats and a damn helicopter! What more do you want?”

A religious person would interpret this story to mean that God’s hand is in everything. A Unitarian might say that we are God’s hands if She, in fact, exists, and a pragmatic agnostic (who looks just like Bernie Sanders) might say that if you had paid more attention to evacuation warnings, you might not need so damn many miracles.

My talk today is about community and the low-hanging fruit of happiness and how, in spite of the cards we have either chosen or have been dealt, a spiritual community can point us in the right direction towards having the best life we can possibly have.

And it’s also about how not to wind up in your mother-in-law’s garage like poor “Lois” in John Starino’s excellent poem. It’s a little late for a Spoiler Alert, but I don’t think Lois had a spiritual community.

As a Northern transplanted recovering Catholic, I moved to conservative little Columbia in June of 1987. My only acquaintances were my elderly neighbors with whom I talked a lot about tomatoes, tomato sandwiches, tomato plants, tomato cages, seven dust and tomato worms. I had no friends or relatives here, and other than my five-year old Chris, and the mailman, and an occasional magazine salesperson, I had no one to talk to during the day. I missed adult conversation so much that I believe I was the only person that the Jehova’s Witnesses had ever tried to get away from.

On September 27, 1987, I walked into this church for the first time–almost 30 years ago, great with child, and towing my little Chris by the hand. The first person to greet me was Mark T., who took his jacket off and put it on Chris because Chris was cold. When the service began, Mark lifted Chris up and put him up on the stage so he could light the chalice. I was so bowled over by that act of kindness and inclusion, that I immediately felt like I’d come home to a spiritual community I never knew I had. I knew I’d be here for a good long time. And ever since, I’ve called myself a Born Again Unitarian. Every time I see Mark, I always remember his kindness with a gratitude that I’m not sure he is aware of.

That same morning, during Joys and Concerns, Mitch Y. stood up and announced that he and Angie D. would be getting married right here, that very afternoon, and, to Angie’s complete surprise, announced with that great largesse that was so very Mitch that the whole church was invited. He didn’t have to invite ME twice! I had nowhere else to go!

I ran to Belk’s, bought a Chinese Ginger Jar that was on sale for $10, and Chris and I went back for their wedding, which was wonderful. I felt a part of someone’s family, and it didn’t matter one iota that it wasn’t mine. Angie tells me that the first time she remembers meeting me was on the reception line at her wedding. She had no idea who I was except I’m sure she noticed that I was about 10 months pregnant and that I was stuffing my face with wedding cake. The Chinese Ginger Jar went to Mitch after their divorce nine years later. The congregation continued to cherish Mitch and Angie, and their daughter, who grew up, right here in this church just like my kids. Sadly, Mitch, such a fun and funny guy, passed away in 2006. But every time I see Angie, I always think of her as that beautiful bride and the joy I took from being an almost wedding crasher on her big day. I am sure she has no idea how grateful I still am to her and to Mitch.

The same day that Angie and Mitch got married, Janet S., our wonderful piano player, who had just had a baby herself, also noticed that I was about ten months pregnant, and she gave me her telephone number and said I could drop Chris off at her house at any time of the day or night should I need to go the hospital. Nine days later, my parents were here, so I didn’t need to call on her, but what a relief it was to know that I had someone that I could call even in the middle of the night, if need be. Janet didn’t know me or Chris, but that didn’t stop her from reaching out to me. She probably had no idea of how much comfort I took in having someone I could rely on. Every time I see her, I remember with such gratitude that act of loving kindness.

And that was just the first day of my being here! And I’ve got thirty more years to tell you about, so kick off your shoes and get comfortable. Just kidding!

Why would anyone bother having a spiritual community? I mean, we have our little communities at work, we have our neighbors, we have our kids, other family members, we have sports teams, bowling leagues, book groups, our own circle of friends, you name it. And who has the time, anyway?

A spiritual community like ours remains a constant in our lives. We share a common history with a community that celebrates our joys and mourns our losses, that witnesses our milestones and our rites of passage, providing us with a sense of connection and continuity.

How important is that? Pretty important, considering that all the non-church groups I’ve just mentioned, come and go, but a spiritual community is always there. Your kids grow up and move away. You can move away from here, or you can get busy and forget we’re even here, but you can always come back. And the minute you walk in, you know you’re home again. There aren’t too many other places like that. And if you really want to feel like you’re home, walk into the kitchen, and open up the fridge. Just remember to close the door again after you forget why you opened it.

Everyone is here for variations on the same theme. We need different things at different stages of our lives. You will see everyone from newborn babies to senior citizens. We are all looking to find someone who can relate to who we are and where we are in our life’s journey. Some of us might be leading the way, and others of us might be trying to find our way. So many of us might just be looking to figure out which way is up so we don’t fall down.

In his new book, “Tribe,” Sebastian Junger points out that while 50% of our Iraq and Afghanistan veterans apply for permanent PTSD benefits, only 10% of those veterans have seen or been engaged in active combat. How can this be? He suggests that their PTSD is due in large part to their separation from their military brothers and sisters, their “tribe,” for whom they were prepared to fight and die, regardless of race, religion, national origin, sexual orientation, political philosophy or any other characteristic.

After their deployment ends, our veterans return to a society that has learned to live without them, and which seems to be at war with itself. Disoriented, marginalized and isolated, they cannot recreate what they have just lost: a purpose. In their platoons, they developed an intense loyalty towards each other and an unquestionable sense of belonging not common in our nuclear families and fragmented social systems. It is easy to forget that we were once a communal species, but the lack of our own tribe where each person is needed and valued does seem to explain our never-ending quest for meaning.

Tragedy and loss intrude their way into our lives when we least expect it. Death, divorce, addiction, betrayal, illness and disability, financial insecurity, and even elections, can all devastate us and make us wonder what, if anything, life is all about. Our survival depends upon our ability to get back on our feet again.

The right kind of community can help you to define a purpose to your life, just in case you’ve lost sight of what that purpose might happen to be. If you’re really busy and stressed out, the purpose of your life is just to get through each day. But during transitions to other stages of our lives, we have to reinvent ourselves. To some people, such an opportunity is a joy, but to others it is a profound and daunting challenge. Communities will have a common purpose, and whatever you contribute to that common purpose will be appreciated by others, and best of all, you’ll have the personal satisfaction of being useful. If you find yourself with some time on your hands, please don’t forget that we are here and we have lots of fun things we could use your help on. And the pleasure of your company would be just as good!

I will never forget the conversation I had many years ago with a man who was a custodian at my kids’ school. He told me that he had been a hopeless alcoholic, crushed by debt and illness, and tons of family problems. In desperation, he sought out the preacher from his local church. The preacher didn’t lecture him or quote the Bible to him. The only thing he said was start tithing, come to church two or three times a week, and you’ll be healthy, wealthy and wise, and you (probably) won’t go to Hell when you die.

Now if you’re a Unitarian and you come to church more than once a week, you just might be the minister. Also, we generally don’t tithe, probably because we don’t believe in Hell, so therefore, 10% of your income (and I don’t know if that’s before or after taxes and deductions) would be a steep price to pay in order to avoid going somewhere you were never going to go to in the first place!

That’s probably why the only Unitarian miracle I’m aware of is meeting our pledge goal. Now if we did tithe, we could probably afford to hire Megachurch Preacher Joel Osteen as our minister which would probably increase our membership by at least a thousand-fold, but then just imagine how high our capital campaign goal would be! It makes my head spin just thinking about it. Come to think of it, our current capital campaign is a real bargain! It’s much more than half-off!

Getting back to that man? He told me that he had stopped drinking from one day to the next, and, miraculously, his health and family relations had improved tremendously, and his finances stabilized, allowing him and his family to live a more secure and peaceful life.

It’s not that I don’t believe in miracles, but the skeptic in me just couldn’t take that at face value. Then I figured it out: There’s a difference between value and cost. Just like that commercial: The cost of tithing: 10%, the value: Priceless.

And here’s the explanation in Luke 12:34 and Matthew 6:21: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

All of which means that the man probably went to church where he was probably eating church food (which could be something like mystery meat on a hot dog bun), which would constitute a nutritional upgrade from bar fare (which could be something like four beers and a handful of Slim Jims). He probably got involved in some healthful activities like playing basketball with the church youth and quite possibly became a mentor to a few of them, and maybe he became the go-to guy for plumbing crises, and maybe he discovered that he was someone people could look up to, and maybe his kids were proud of him because they saw him as a leader that other people respected, because when I met him, he seemed like someone who had earned the love and respect of people he loved and respected himself.

The best way to surround yourself with a loving community is just to roll up your sleeves and pitch in. Whatever you do, you’ll probably have a pretty good time doing it. Very often, you find yourself just working on a committee with someone, or washing dishes in the kitchen after coffee hour, or painting the RE wing, or putting the chairs away in the social hall, or manning a table at our garage sale, or attending a pancake breakfast fundraiser for our RE program or carrying our rather unwieldy Standing on the Side of Love banner in the Pride Parade. (I mean, could that thing be any heavier? Even we Unitarians have our cross to bear) And something happens. You drop something (hopefully, it’s not the banner dropping on your foot!) or you say something, you laugh and you find yourself sharing a moment with someone that neither one of you will ever forget, and that becomes a little tiny chip in this huge mosaic of all the experiences that you have over the years in this church that will keep you coming back. You find yourself caring about other people’s lives, rejoicing with them over their triumphs and crying with them through their sorrows, helping lift a burden off their shoulders or letting them help you lift one off your own.

Community, especially a spiritual community, is an investment of our time, our care, our talents, our love, and our resources. If you take care of your investment, the dividends are surprisingly high.

A spiritual community contributes to our physical and mental health. Just being here calls us to our better selves, helps us to practice things like gratitude, compassion, forgiveness, mindfulness, respect, generosity and acceptance. It helps us to deal more honestly and effectively with disappointments and conflicts. If you have children, you know they watch you and they learn from you how to solve problems and conduct themselves during trying times.

It is here that our children learn to think critically and to make good decisions using our Seven Principals as an ethical guide. A community is where you learn to be kind, when to say yes, when to say no, and when to say nothing It shapes your relationships with people in your own life, the larger community of our neighborhoods, our institutions, our state and our nation. I like to think of our UU kids as good global citizens.

Not everyone needs or wants a church, and that’s fine, but for those of us who do, I sure am glad that this place exists. Community is a little bit like health insurance—it pays to have it before you realize how much you need it.

And because my favorite spiritual practice is laughter, I will close with one more joke:

God appears to a man one night in a vision. The man asks God to let him win the lottery. God agrees. When the man dies in a tragic flood, he goes to Heaven and meets God and complains that God broke his promise because he never won the lottery. God, who looks just like Bernie Sanders, says to him, “You never won the lottery because you never bought a damned ticket! What more do you want?” And the man says, “I don’t know! Two Boats and a Helicopter?”

Thanks for coming. Have a beautiful Thanksgiving, and please know how thankful I am for you, this wonderful congregation that I love so very much.

Benediction

Each of Us Ministers to a Weary World
By Darcy Roake

There is too much hardship in this world to not find joy,
every day
There is too much injustice in this world to not right the balance,
every day
There is too much pain in this world to not heal,
every day

Each of us ministers to a weary world.
Let us go forth now and do that which calls us to make this world
more loving, more compassionate and more filled with the grace of divine presence, every day.

*******************

Go in Peace.

bernie-and-me

Bernie and Me

 

Music Credit: Bruno Mars, “Count on Me,” www.youtube.com

Photo Credits: “John Starino,” by Kevin Oliver

“Two Boats and a Helicopter,” from The Office of CBP Air and Marine helicopter (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File )

“Bernie and Me,” by Sarah Damewood

“Literary Credit: Onion Season, Pt. 1, by John M. Starino, SilDag Press, 139 Dickert Drive, Lexington, SC 29073-9040, jmstar5@aol.com, Copyright © John M. Starino/SilDag Press, First Edition, 2012. “Lois,” p. 8.

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Does This Thing Come With a Reset Button?

Cheval_de_Troie_d'après_le_Virgile_du_VaticanA gift is defined as something voluntarily given, with no expectation of payment of any kind, intended to show favor towards someone, to honor a person or an occasion, or to assist an individual or an organization in need. Most simply, we view a gift as a tangible sign of gratitude, consideration, affection, love or goodwill.

In a perfect world, our gift would elicit delight and gratitude. The grateful recipient would be sure to use and enjoy our gift as per our intentions, whether expressed or merely implied.

Now THAT would be the gold standard of gift gifting, wouldn’t it?

But, wait! Such an expectation transforms the gift into an exchange, a crass transaction sucking the very spirit out of the gift itself.

In this cheapened form, the gift is more about the giver than the recipient and, therefore, no longer a true gift. It has become an obligation and a source of tension and regret, one better not given in the first place.

Life is too short to wallow in remorse, though. Damage control is far more constructive than waiting for a perfect outcome. There is no perfect remedy, but a decent remedy would be to hit the reset button on the gift, provided that the recipient hasn’t yet rightfully hurled the gift back at the insipid, non-virtuous head of the giver.

The reset button should display the following message:

“Please forgive any negativity which has resulted from this gift. I now re-gift it to you with an open heart. Please enjoy this gift in any way you see fit…or not.”

Better to ennoble our faulty spirit than to pander to our bloated, indignant ego.

And one last caveat: Be prepared to duck!

Art Credit: Trojan Horse from Vergilius Vaticanus (wikipedia.org)

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The Soup Mat

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We were sitting around the coffee table, all of us trying to ignore that my father-in-law was dying. We talked about the economy, the weather, travel conditions, our children, and the latest news from the doctor, edited to put a rosy spin on his downward trend. My father-in-law grinned more in the last year than I had ever seen him do in all the many years I’d known him. As time started closing in on Ken, the wider his grin became, as if forced good cheer could stave off death’s stealthy approach.

I pulled a blue crochet hook out of my bag, and announced that I could make yarn from an old T-shirt and then crochet it into something useful, like a potholder. Ken got up and came back with a “Save Our Slopes” T-shirt, commemorating one of the countless runs in which he’d participated during his long retirement from a very successful career as an engineer and a businessman.

Ken had always been healthier than anyone his age had a right to be—he’d become a vegetarian during his 50s and then a “vegangelist” in his 70s. He had always planned to live until 100, but the rest of us considered 100 to be a conservative estimate. He travelled all over the world to hike and run in exotic and far-flung wonderlands, scaling mountains, and riding rafts over white water sluicing through slot canyons. He had started a Sierra Club chapter in his mountain town in North Carolina and hiked with college kids, avoiding old people whenever possible. He had very reluctantly moved into assisted living when he realized that his heart failure could be managed but never cured.

The shirt looked so new that I didn’t want to cut it up, but Ken insisted it was OK. Everyone watched as I cut a straight line from armhole to armhole. Then I folded the lower piece and cut through several thicknesses. At that moment, I realized that I was doing it all wrong, and sheepishly confessed that I may have just ruined the shirt.

Ken began to whimper and it dawned on me that his faith had been rewarded with disappointment. Here I was, just like his doctors, making a vague promise to take something precious that he can’t really use anymore, cut it up into something that’s falling apart and then weave it into something different—not necessarily better, but somewhat usable. Any way you slice it, though, the result is a net loss.

I would have cried, too, but my sister-in-law, Ann, did a quick web search for me and we located the instructions on how to make yarn from a T-shirt. With a few rescue snips and some fancy re-folding, I was able to resume making good on my promise. Vindicated, I crocheted in peace as the conversation looped its way through biographies and scientific breakthroughs.

We all sighed with relief as I put the finishing touches on this homespun, overgrown potholder. Ken was more than pleasantly surprised to see the tight pattern of knots. He ran his fingers over the sturdy, springy weave, and he seemed almost tickled that his once treasured T-shirt had morphed into an unexpectedly delightful piece of homely fabric art.

Ken thanked me and decreed that henceforth, this nubby rectangle would serve as a mat for his soup bowl at noon each day.

On our way out of the building that evening, Ann and I rehashed the experience of the almost-ruined T-shirt and the almost-miraculous jury-rigged solution. It was our little victory. She said, “Maybe you’ll write a story about this.” I said I would, but life, and then death, got in the way. Ken missed his 90th birthday by five days.

This is our first Christmas without Ken. His absence will always be glaring. But the relief that his anguish and fear have ended is a comfort, as are the happy memories of his life so very well-lived. Ken’s death has woven us all together just a little more tightly than before.

Ann tells me, “I’ve got something for you!” She presents me with the soup mat, lightly spattered with drops of dried soup. I am more than pleasantly surprised to see the tight pattern of knots. I run my fingers over the sturdy, springy weave, and I am tickled that this unexpectedly delightful piece of homely fabric art has found its way back to me.

We both smile, remembering the afternoon of our little victory. Once again, Ann reminds me, “Maybe you’ll write a story about this.”

Photo Credit: Gloria Talcove-Woodward, “The Soup Mat,” The Talcove Fiction Faction.

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My Electric-Blue Suede Roller Skates

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Winter, 1980. Outside, a miserable frigid wind is swirling in frantic circles, hoping to bite something warmer than itself. Brazen hillocks and patches of snow defy the cold sunshine.

Inside, it isn’t much warmer, but at least there’s no wind.

I’m wearing red, heart-shaped, Lolita sunglasses. The bright red feather boa wrapped around my neck is trailing behind me as I roller skate through the New York Armory’s trade show. I am draped with very cool, trendy, skinny, black ties embossed with pink flamingos and white dice, and I am handing out flyers advertising “Metal Impressions,” a very cool, trendy Brooklyn company owned and operated by my good friend and upstairs Park Slope neighbor, Barry. I have renamed him “Barrance,” not that there’s anything wrong with “Barry”—it’s just that “Barry” sounds like a derivation of something more formal, like, say, “Barrance,” which only exists because I have deemed that it should. Barry thinks his new name is brilliant!

Barrance has lent me a brand-new pair of electric-blue suede roller skates for this marketing extravaganza. The skates are a perfect fit and I shove off, tentative at first, but gaining confidence and momentum as the massive expanse of flawless concrete glides smoothly under my neon-yellow acrylic wheels. I feel seven feet tall, although the skates have only boosted me up to about 5’5.”

This is my dream job–getting paid to do what comes so naturally to me (smile, talk, laugh, skate, crash and fall, get up and do it again). As I recall, Barrance paid me handsomely to accompany him that day. I must not have been as broke as I remember, because I also recall trading the money I earned that day in order to keep the electric-blue suede skates, because, to tell the truth, I couldn’t live without them. The stride, the glide, the ride. This was moving on at its best!

As with most things we can’t live without, they are the first thing we pack when we move across the street, across the state, across the country, or across the ages. They are the first thing we unpack when we arrive. We put them high up on a shelf, not only to venerate them, but also to get them out of harm’s way, and we catch an occasional glimpse of them when we are rummaging around, searching for something mundane but more pressing. The urgency of our mission seldom permits us to linger too long on the sweetness of that vital piece of who we are or wish we were, but it’s comforting to know it’s still there, whenever we want it. The trouble is that we often forget it’s there because it’s totally obscured by the ever-proliferating clutter of our busy lives.

So what do I want now? Well, as much as I would love to put on those electric-blue suede skates, and speed down a hill only to remember that I never really learned how to stop without crashing into something, I really want to unclutter my life, divest myself of all these beautiful little treasures I have cherished for so long, and disencumber myself from being their custodian and keeper of the illusion that I will once again be young and skate around the Armory in Lolita sunglasses with a red feather boa with a funny, wonderful, laughing friend named Barrance.

It’s time to let it go so I can move on. There’s a tantalizing future out there, just waving around like a red feather boa, and if I’m going to grab onto it and let it pull me effortlessly through this gorgeous present of right now, I’m going to need both hands free.

First you stride, then you glide, then you ride.

This must be my dream job!

Photo Credit: My Electric-Blue Suede Roller Skates, by Gloria Talcove-Woodward

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My Very First Best Gift Ever

Le Petit Prince

The little Texas tree house apartment, nestled high into a night sky thicket of bamboo, was aflitter with three or four hippie midwives and one young, sweet husband–perhaps the only person present who fully understood the terror, gravity and wonder of what was way too late to turn back.

Relentless pain roiled through my consciousness in a forever mode of no return. Delirious from the hallucinatory waves of misery, I thought it made perfect sense that the most beautiful baby boy I had ever seen was suddenly just there in the candlelight, glowing through the darkest part of the night. My very own “Petit Prince,” half moonbeam, half sunbeam.

The joy of seeing you for the first time was made even more wondrous by the realization that you had always been a part of my soul and my destiny all along.

With very little fanfare, the midwives quietly dressed us in soft, white hippie pajamas, blew out the candle, then tiptoed out and closed the door, leaving Daddy, you and me sleeping peacefully between dreamy sherbet sheets in a happy little knot that the dawn couldn’t pry loose even if it had wanted to.

My Very First Best Gift Ever.

Happy Birthday, Christopher.

Illustration Credit: Le Petit Prince, written and illustrated by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Gallimard (France), 1943.

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